A Foggy Morning

I am not really a good morning person. But sometimes, when I get up just a little bit earlier than usual, and all is still quiet around me, I love the morning. This morning was one of those mornings. I don't think I even talked before I was in the car and having to deal with traffic or commenting back to the radio. They can't hear me, but I definitaly think that I'm funny.
Before all of that though, it was a wonderful morning. My house was quiet. My street was quiet. There was also this heavy fog that had settled over everything. It just dubbed everything. This is my street -->

I moved back to the Northwest this last September after being gone for almost four years. It could just be from not being here for so long, but it seems like it is so much more northwesty than I ever rememeber it being. There is fog all the time. I am still getting used to how green it is. i love it actually. I always did back then, but now I think I love it even more because I am back into my writing. My imagination is going wild, and the atmosphere just helps it all along.

I think that fog brings things to life that usuallu would not. It subdues the obvious, and you can almost swear that you really did see that wood fairy hiding in that little patch of woods, but it was only out of the corner of your eye and it was gone by the time you could fully turn. For those darker sides of everyones imagination you see the shadows of vampires and witches from the books you read as a child. So many possibilities when the usual are taken away.

Butterflies and My Parents

My parenta are interesting people. They are in many ways packrats. But I think that there is a point at which it is just time to let something go. For example, this butterfly. It fell and died in thier foyer two days ago. It is still there. They won't put it outside to rot and go back to the nature it was intended for, an they won't let me do it either. I will probably still find it there in a week.